Sicknesses: Tis the Season
Ouch. Do you know how many times the average person touches their face? Now just imagine how different your estimated number would be if I were to ask how many times a day we touch a surface–innocuous looking, to be sure, but literally crawling with invisible little Nasties who want only to play out their microscopic version of Invasion of the Body Snatchers on your precious innards?
It never fails. When I am sick, a part of my consciousness enters a dream state. It dreams of the times the body was not sick. A part of me dreams about health while sick, and the love affair of the one for the other is so unrequited I can’t stand it. It makes me sick….More sick!
Had to get a tissue. I’m back now. But all of this got me to thinking about how we think of sicknesses like colds or a passing flu. They are temporary diseases, something passing through. We think of ourselves as being vanquished by something, but the feeling of sickness is often our own body giving the invader what for.
How rare is it to think of yourself as a mausoleum for vagrant microbials? How different would our waking life metaphors be of ourselves if we did? How much more splendid our consciousness of health, when fronting its supposed opposite so squarely in the face?
Or maybe that’s just the sickness talking. It has changed movies on me. Now it’s doing its own tiny version of The Exorcist. The devil knows the holy water is coming soon. Every sneeze is my healthy body writing “help me” from the inside out. Every wandering thought, aching throat, weary muscle, is the devil wanting its fifteen minutes of fame.
Maybe I’ll let it make my bed float just once more.